Black Memory: Letter to a Dear Friend

Dear Best Friend,

I hope this letter finds you in a quiet moment, where you can feel its gentle weight rather than rush through it. I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately, about the stories you carry and the tender way you speak of your past—how your voice sometimes breaks, even in its resilience. This thought has led me here, to a simple suggestion: write your memoir.

You may be wondering why I would encourage such an endeavor, especially knowing how heavy certain memories can feel. Memories, especially black memories—those shaded in sorrow, loss, or unspoken truths—might seem better left untouched. But what about confronting them, shaping them into words, and finding their rightful place in your story?

The Weight of Black Memory

We both know that black memory is not easy to face. It lingers in corners of our minds that we’d rather keep locked, whispering when we most wish to forget. But those memories, as painful as they are, hold an undeniable power. They are not simply moments of darkness but also fragments of who we’ve become.

Writing can be your way of holding those fragments with care, not to shatter under their weight but to find coherence within them. I imagine your black memories turning into sentences, paragraphs, and chapters—not to relive your pain but to step outside it, to see it from a new vantage point. Something about writing may allow a transformation of pain into understanding, and understanding into strength.

You don’t need to have a grand narrative in mind or a finished book in sight. You can begin with fragments in writing your memoir. Moments that seem disconnected, flashes of black memory interspersed with the golden light of joy or humor, these will come to you in snippets. Write with abandon, without worrying about perfection. There’s freedom in knowing that the first draft doesn’t need to be anything more than a private conversation with yourself.

Healing Through the Act of Writing

In crafting your memoir, you may find something unexpected: the ability to forgive—not just others, but yourself. Black memory often carries guilt, regret, or shame, even when those feelings are not ours to bear. Writing allows us to set those emotions down, to examine them with a clearer gaze, and perhaps to release them altogether.

Through writing, you may also uncover connections between seemingly unrelated events, discovering patterns or truths that were invisible before. This process can be illuminating, even liberating, as it reshapes how you view your past.

And let’s not forget the joy that writing can bring. Yes, even black memory will not be able to avoid your moments of laughter, tenderness, and wonder. Not only your darkest chapters should fill the pages of your memoir. The full spectrum of your experiences will eventually unfold in the writing process.

Your Story, Your Voice

No one else can tell your story, because no one else has lived it as you have. Black memory may try to dictate the narrative, but writing allows you to reclaim your voice, to decide what your story means and how it should be told. And I’ve always admired the way you weave emotion and insight into your words, how you make the simplest moments feel profound. Your memoir doesn’t need to be anything other than what it is: a reflection of you, in all your complexity and grace.

Your story might resonate with someone who feels alone in their struggles, offering them comfort or guidance. It might inspire someone to confront their own black memory, knowing they are not the only one carrying such weight.

But most of all, your memoir is a way to honor your journey, to acknowledge the battles you’ve fought and the triumphs you’ve achieved. It is a reminder that even in the shadow of black memory, there is light to be found. I hope you’ll consider the possibility, the potential it holds for healing, clarity, and self-discovery.

If you ever feel ready to begin, know that I am here for you—whether you need a sounding board, a cheerleader, or simply someone to hold space for your words.

Sincerely,
Enjay